ly at his brothers and sisters, and his father. "I have named them the hounds of Sisyphus."
Monstrous, Bektaten thought. But she felt a strange flutter of anticipation in her own human chest as she watched this scene through Bastet's unfailing eyes. What was this feeling? Was it hope?
It was an abominable crime, what this man Burnham proposed, what these people had created here. A form of torture that rivaled those of the Spanish Inquisition, an event that had sent her into the earth on a long sleep.
Did Saqnos feel the same way? Could he feel the same away? Was he even capable of such compassion? Did this explain his silence and the time he took to study the ravenous animals? Was he imagining some poor woman, immortal or not, fracti or pure, being forced to fight off these terrible beasts again and again? And if so, would this fantasy of barbarism resurrect the thoughtful, patient man she had known thousands of years before, before his thirst for the elixir transformed him into a man of pure appetite?
Reject this, Saqnos. Reject this plan. Throw its architect into the pit with his creations if you must so he may know the horror of his own actions. There is a part of you that knows no immortals or fracti should marshal their power against any human in this way. You know this. You must.
"Burnham?"
"Yes, Master."
Saqnos turned to his child and clapped his hands on the man's shoulders. "This is a good plan, and you are a good servant."
Everyone below suddenly spun and looked in her direction. The dogs erupted again. Only then did she realize her own anguish and fury had caused Bastet to yowl; this feline cry had given her location away.
She launched herself from the stairs, hit the stone between their scrambling legs, and raced out the open door. The fracti didn't pursue. Neither did Saqnos.
To them, Bastet was just a feral cat whose secret lair had been disturbed. Perhaps they would later question why a cat would willingly draw so close to mad dogs, but for now, she had time to escape. She raced across the lawn, scaled the stone wall.
Then, just at the moment when Bastet saw the Landaulette in the shadows up ahead, Aktamu seemed to appear out of nowhere. He scooped her up in one arm.
Once Bektaten saw herself through Bastet's eyes, Bektaten reached for her handkerchief. It was like groping in the dark, but she had practiced this movement several times earlier that night. She wiped her face clean of pollen. Gradually, the connection began to weaken.
For another minute or two she experienced the car's movement as Bastet did, and then feeling returned to her own legs, and she felt once again the kiss of her dress shirt against her skin and the weight of her silk wrap against her shoulders and arms.
Once she found herself staring forward at the backs of the two men in the car's front seat, Bektaten said, "It seems we have a party to attend."
21
The Rutherford Estate
Alex Savarell followed his mother out onto the stone steps leading to the Rutherford Estate's broad western lawn.
Edith Savarell, the Countess of Rutherford, was almost as tall as her son, her silver hair as lovely to him as her blonde hair had been years ago. Elegantly dressed in a soft belted jacket and narrow skirt, and with her hair exquisitely coiffed, she seemed to Alex a timeless beauty reborn.
Julie and Ramsey's coming betrothal party was already the talk of London, twice mentioned in the society columns. A famous American author was scheduled to attend along with a string of other literary and artistic luminaries. In just a few days' time, some of the wealthiest families in Britain would dot this very expanse.
In preparation, the estate, which had formed a terrible burden on their family for so long now, had been beautifully restored--what with Elliott's steady stream of bank deposits from abroad, and Edith's renewed enthusiasm. It had been brought back to life, and so had Edith, who strode ahead of him now, making broad sweeping gestures at the lawn before them as she described where the tents, tables, and chairs would go.
Over the past few weeks, the gardeners had managed to trim the walls of box hedges that ran the lawn's length. They'd cleared away the vines that had threaded themselves through the surrounding trees over the past few years. Inside, the wood floors had been waxed and polished, the tapestries cleaned and the expansive windows shined to spotlessness, crystallizing every available view of the rolling green countryside. The dreary old Victorian wallpaper in the drawing room had been replaced by a new William Morris print, which made it appear as if the greenery surrounding the house had wandered inside and been somehow trimmed and tamed by all the elegant furnishings.
Edith was a handsome, strong-willed woman, an American heiress who had always been the perfect match for Alex's father, a man prone to long trips and "fits of reclusiveness," as she'd once described them. She had never complained of the family's financial situation, which had consumed her own inheritance years ago, managing the household as best she could, and making the requisite excuses for Elliott's often eccentric behavior.
A woman of greater emotional needs would have been unable to endure all this, Alex thought. And it delighted him to see his mother so irrepressibly happy. Though Alex knew nothing of women's clothing or ornament, he knew this new jacket and skirt were expensive, fashionable--indeed her closets were bursting with such new clothing--and that the pearls she wore had been restored to her after years in a bank vault as security for debts now paid. This was good for his mother. She deserved this. She deserved to be proud and filled with social plans, of which the engagement party would certainly be only the beginning.
Was his father suffering from his usual rebellion now--his endless refusal to acknowledge the social demands placed on him? Did that explain Elliott's travels all over Europe? It certainly didn't explain the great sums of money he'd been sending home. He had mentioned casinos in his letter, yes. And there'd been a bit of gossip from old family friends who had spotted him in Baden-Baden.
There had been talk at the bank of an inadvisable land purchase in Africa. But with the money streaming in, no one had complained. Certainly Edith had not complained. She had continued to invest half of each surprising new deposit wisely for a time when perhaps her gambling husband would not have such luck. And she had managed all this, this magnificent restoration, on top of it.
"It's somewhat odd Julie wants to have the party outside," Edith said, turning to face her son. "It's not quite the season yet, and won't be for another few weeks."
Alex had a reasonable guess, but he didn't think it was his mother's business. Julie was still strangely shy about the remarkable thing that had happened to her eyes. Out of doors, she'd have every excuse to wear those eccentric little sunglasses.
"But the weather seems well suited for it for now," Alex said.
"For now, perhaps. But the temperature could plunge. And then what? Sweaters and blankets for all?"